


Veritas, Unitas, Caritas

by herewestandinfireandblood (fairytale_bliss)



Series: Amor Vincit Omnia [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Jorah lives AU, Mild Sexual Content, S8 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 03:41:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19899262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairytale_bliss/pseuds/herewestandinfireandblood
Summary: [Showverse] Tyrion Lannister finds ways to irritate him at least a dozen times a day. He just doesn’t usually start as early as this.





	Veritas, Unitas, Caritas

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: More pointless fluff. Hopefully it's okay. *Hides*
> 
> There's a nod in here to a comment that toas-tea made on a Dany/Jorah gifset on Tumblr-see if you can spot it. ;)
> 
> Also, yes, I know that dragons 'bond' with one rider for life, but if D&D can screw up S8 so spectacularly I think we can be allowed a little creative licence when it comes to Jorah having Rhaegal like he's always deserved. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Game of Thrones.

_ Veritas, Unitas, Caritas _

Frantic hammering on the door is what rouses Jorah Mormont from the most restful sleep he’s had in a very long time. Groaning under his breath, he buries his face deeper into the soft warmth that pillows his head. There’s very little he would get out of bed for on a morning like this.

“Mormont! Mormont!”

Of course it’s the dwarf. With more determination, Jorah pulls the sheets tighter. Tyrion Lannister finds ways to irritate him at least a dozen times a day. He just doesn’t usually start as early as this.

“Mormont! Open up right now or I swear to all the gods that I’m coming in there!”

There’s no doubt that he would do just that—Lannisters always make good on their promises. It’s enough to spur Jorah into movement. Throwing the sheets back, he fumbles his way out of bed.

“Seven hells!” he shouts in the direction of the door, his tone a growl befitting any bear, “I’m _coming!_ ”

There’s no time to dress properly. He snatches up his breeches from the crumpled pile on the floor and hurries over to the door. When he pulls it open just enough to peer through, he is greeted by Tyrion’s panicked face. That’s a peculiarity—there’s little in the world that fazes the diminutive lion of Casterly Rock.

“What is it?” he asks harshly, fixing him with the fiercest frown he can muster.

Tyrion pays it no mind. “You have to come with me! Right now!”

“Why?” Jorah says. “It’s barely bloody dawn, Lannister. I swear, Hand of the Queen or not, I’ll push you into the Blackwater Rush—!”

Tyrion sweeps the words aside with an impatient gesture. “Yes, yes, you’ll serve me to Drogon, you’ll drown me, you’ll feed my cock to the goats...Oh, wait, no, that’s not you, that was Shagga…”

_“What do you want?”_

Tyrion stops mid-flow, coming back to himself. Jorah barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. The Lannister truly does love the sound of his own voice. But his next words make him focus.

“The queen is missing.”

“Missing? What do you mean, missing?”

Tyrion _does_ roll his eyes. “Why are northerners all so bloody slow? _The queen is missing._ She’s not in her quarters.”

“And how do you know that? Have you been sneaking around them?”

“Of course not!” But Tyrion does flush a little, as if the thought has crossed his mind in the past. It’s no surprise. He’s a little letch, and his reputation as a whoremonger is famous from the Arbor to the Wall. He doesn’t visit the brothels as often as he used to—one withering look from Daenerys is enough to make him scurry away—but his skills as a lover are legendary. Or so he says himself. “Missandei went in to rouse her and alerted me. There’s a raven from Winterfell.”

Ravens from Winterfell are not unusual. Jon Snow—Jon Targaryen, legitimised by Daenerys when she took her throne—often visits there and sends word of how he’s doing. His cousin Sansa is Queen in the North, for Jon had never wanted a crown, and now he spends most of his time roaming the true north with the remaining Wildlings. As Daenerys has fire in her veins, Jon has ice, Ned Stark’s true son despite his real parentage.

“Could that not have waited until a later hour?” he asks grumpily.

Tyrion huffs. “If we had waited until later, we would be none the wiser to the fact that she’s missing!”

“Perhaps she’s taken Drogon for a fly,” he suggests.

“Taken Drogon for a fly?” the imp responds sarcastically. “ _That’s_ your wisdom?”

“It’s not unusual for her to do that,” Jorah points out.

“But at this time?”

“Her Grace doesn’t always sleep well.”

“Drogon is still here,” Tyrion admits grudgingly. “I sent Grey Worm to the Dragon Pit.”

“Rhaegal?”

“Since when has Her Grace ever ridden on Rhaegal? Drogon’s the only one she rides.”

“You’d be surprised,” Jorah says airily. Tyrion shoots him a daggered look.

“Rhaegal let Jon ride him. And now he lets you,” he adds, unwillingly admiring. It’s something Jorah still has a difficult time believing for himself. He’d never entertained any great fantasies of riding one, but Daenerys had convinced him otherwise, as she was so often able to do. “Plus Grey Worm reported that he’s also there.”

“Then a walk to clear her head,” says Jorah.

“Where she could be attacked at any moment!”

“The common people love her.” Jorah can’t prevent the pride snaking into his voice. “The most loved ruler Westeros has ever known.”

“Not everyone loves her,” Tyrion says darkly. “She’s not safe alone.”

“Then perhaps she’s simply wandering in the Red Keep.”

Tyrion throws his hands up in agitation. “Out of everyone I thought I could count on you! You worry about her safety more than anyone! She can’t go anywhere without you at her back.”

“I’m the Lord Commander of her Queensguard,” says Jorah. “It’s natural for me to be there.”

“Then why aren’t you with her now!?”

Jorah raises his eyebrows but holds his tongue. “Perhaps she’s taken one of the others.”

“Her Grace chooses you every time,” snaps Tyrion. “I didn’t know northerners were stupid as well as slow.”

Scowling, Jorah slips out the door, drawing himself to his full height. The majority of people have impressive heights when Tyrion stands in their shadows, but there is a newfound respect in the dwarf’s eyes as he cranes his neck upwards. Jorah knows why. He’s bare-chested in the warm summer air. No one sees him half-dressed in the queen’s household.

Years might have passed, but the scars have never faded. The thick curve at the side of his neck from Qotho’s arakh, which is usually hidden by his tunic. The greyscale scars which plague the entirety of his chest and stomach and left arm, creep over his back. The near-fatal blows which sliced through his skin on the Long Night. There’s one vertical slash down his right side, another near his throat, one mere centimetres from his heart.

He looks a mess, there’s no denying that, but he isn’t vain enough to bemoan them. It’s been many years since a fair maiden might have found him comely.

Besides, Daenerys often says they are scars of loyalty and honour, and he wears each one with pride for her. He’d take them all again if it meant keeping her safe.

He isn’t used to being stared at, however. He crosses his arms across his chest and fixes Tyrion with a glower.

“What does the raven from Winterfell say?” he asks, indicating the scroll in Tyrion’s fist.

He looks up at him indignantly. “How should I know? It’s closed with the Queen in the North’s seal!”

Jorah snorts. “You know as well as I do that Varys has already read it and told you its contents.”

Tyrion returns the scowl; it’s clear he’s been caught out. After a moment he offers, “Jon says he’s coming to visit.”

“And that’s it? You thought it a good idea to disturb Her Grace before dawn because her nephew says he’s coming to visit?”

Once upon a time, the mere mention of Jon would have caused a deep ache in his chest. He’s never been blind; he’s always known when Daenerys is attracted to someone. Meeting Daario outside her chambers in Mereen had been a sword straight through his heart, the hot jealousy coiling through his veins as potent as it was futile, as burning as any dragonfire.

It had dulled over time, after his banishment, but the ache had always been there. He loved her as his queen but he loved her as a woman too, and it would never be easy to know that she was sharing herself with someone else, someone who was everything that he was not...young, handsome, charismatic, with the power to seduce her with a few arrogant gestures.

Of course, she had left Daario in Mereen. She’d demanded that he return to her.

She’d embraced him with such uninhibited relief when he’d made his way back to her, lingering around him, warm and soft and real. But Jon Snow had been lurking in the background, and he’d known deep down that there was an inevitability there, as impossible to stop as the tide. Fire and ice.

His heart had hardened when she had demanded that she and Jon sail together for Winterfell. Alone. That had been for only one purpose, and it had been confirmed to him when they had met up again at the ports for the final leg of their journey, in Daenerys’ shy smiles and Jon’s lasting looks. It was hard to shut off his emotions, his imaginings of the dragon queen in the arms of the wolf king.

But with Jon, it had been different to Daario. It had still hurt, he cannot deny that. Perhaps it had hurt more, for Daario had never had Daenerys’ heart. But he’d seen that Jon had a good, noble heart, and if there was anyone who would make a worthy, decent, deserving match, it was him. He’d seen that for himself when Jon had tried to return Longclaw, for the way he cared about the needs of everyone, much like Daenerys herself did.

So it had seemed like it would last forever, until it didn’t.

Until it was discovered that Jon was a Targaryen, Daenerys’ nephew, the true heir to the Iron Throne.

Until the Long Night, she had corrected him, her whisper like a confession to the gods.

“It’s a good job we did! Otherwise we might not have known for hours that she’s gone!”

“If Varys can read unbroken scrolls, why can’t his little birds find her?”

“They’re flying as we speak,” says Tyrion. But then he pauses. Eyes him suspiciously.

Jorah waits, holding his breath.

Tries to keep his composure.

“You know where she is, don’t you?”

The bottom falls out of his stomach. “What?”

“Don’t play stupid with me, Mormont. I know you. You would have flown out the moment you knew she was missing if you didn’t, naked as a babe if it was necessary.”

“I’m not attached to the queen’s side,” he says heatedly. “Her Grace is entitled to come and go as she pleases without having to answer to her council—”

“Oh, seven hells,” comes an entirely different voice. Jorah winces, closing his eyes as recognition and disbelief floods across Tyrion’s features.

The door behind him is pulled open wide, and Daenerys Targaryen steps gracefully out into the corridor.

She’s wearing nothing but the shirt she tore from his body the previous night. Her hair is loose from the grandiose, intricate braids that Missandei weaves for her every day, instead falling in soft silver waves around her shoulders, making her look years younger, nothing like the regal queen she portrays for the rest of Westeros.

“Oh,” says Tyrion. “ _There_ you are.”

If Daenerys is embarrassed to be found in her Lord Commander’s room, she shows no sign of it. “As you can see, I’m perfectly well. There’s no reason to fret.”

“Y-Yes, Your Grace,” says Tyrion. He’s still gawping.

Daenerys laughs, a carefree, joyful sound that makes Tyrion stare all the harder, for it’s a sound so rarely heard in court.

“I never thought I’d see the day when Tyrion Lannister was speechless,” she teases.

With great visible effort, Tyrion gathers himself. A slow, knowing smile creeps across his face, twisting the scar that rips his own face in two.

“Ah,” he drawls. “This explains everything.”

Jorah takes a slight step to the side, shielding Daenerys from view. Unable to stop the swell of pride as he may be, he is still a knight protecting the dignity of his queen. Even if said queen is The Unburnt, and has been completely naked in front of her subjects twice before.

If he had ever worried that Daenerys might balk at being discovered with her knight, all doubts are gone now. She stands tall beside him, unwavering. Loyal.

“Where’s the scroll from Jon?” she asks, holding out her hand. “And be kind enough to tell Lord Varys that I’ll see him later regarding the reading of my personal correspondence.”

Tyrion passes it over to her, still smirking. It’s a look that Jorah would quite like to smack from his face. If he had hoped that the dwarf would keep his thoughts to himself, he is sorely disappointed.

“You know, I was starting to wonder why Mormont was in such a good mood recently,” he comments. “Those frequent smiles were starting to disconcert me. Well, I suppose it’s a good thing. Even old bears can’t spend their entire lives so surly and sour. I would have suggested him getting a woman years ago, but he does love his loyalty.”

“All right, enough,” says Daenerys, but there’s no masking the amusement in her voice. “Leave us now, Tyrion. Inform Missandei and the rest of my Queensguard that I am safe and well and Ser Jorah is looking after me.”

“I’m sure he is,” Tyrion sniggers. “Unless he’s stabbing you with his sword.”

“You’re speaking to the queen,” Jorah growls, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks despite himself.

“And you’re _fucking_ the queen,” Tyrion counters blithely.

Jorah grits his teeth, and would have taken a step forward if Daenerys’ hand hadn’t landed on his forearm.

“Tyrion,” she says, her tone commanding now. “It was entertaining at first, but now you’re treading a dangerous line.”

“A line I seem unable to leave alone.”

“I won’t be able to stop Jorah from cutting out your tongue if you carry on.”

“Oh, I know how Mormont likes his long, sullen silences. But it would be a great travesty if I lost my tongue. I wouldn’t be able to give you my sage advice.” His smirk widens. “And all the ladies of Westeros would mourn. I happen to be very skilled with my tongue.”

Daenerys rolls her eyes. “Tyrion...”

He holds his hands up in mock defeat. “I’m going, I’m going.”

“Tell Missandei that I will call for her when I’m ready.”

“Don’t forget we have a small council meeting this morning. I know how time can slip away when one is having fun.” Tyrion shoots him a wink.

Daenerys does not rise to the bait, filled with grace and poise as always. “And inform Lord Varys that there’s no need for him to send his little birds snooping about. If there’s anything he wants to know, I will be more than happy to answer any questions he might have.”

“And _I_ have plenty of questions for Mormont,” says Tyrion cheerfully. “We’re going out drinking tonight, I insist. There are plenty of brothels that serve excellent wine. I promise Your Grace that I’ll return him in one piece, honour intact.”

“Not bloody likely,” Jorah grumbles, scowling. “No brothels.”

“We could have taken a trip down memory lane, gone back to where we started.”

Jorah avoids Daenerys’ raised eyebrow. “No. I am the Lord Commander of the Queensguard, and my duty is here in the Red Keep.”

“Spoilsport,” Tyrion mutters. “Fine, have it your way. But I’ll have you know that I have a brilliant mind and a keen desire to learn as many new and interesting things as possible. There’s no avoiding me forever.”

“More’s the pity.”

“Oh, Mormont, what would I do without your brutal northern honesty? Always straight to the point, never coating your words with honey to make them more digestible. Although I would have thought that bears liked honey—” Here, he mimics a lilting, mocking tone, “— _He licked the honey from her hair—_ ”

“Tyrion, that is enough now,” Daenerys says, and the amusement in her tone has evaporated like ice on a summer’s day. “If I had wanted you to act the fool I would not have named you my Hand.”

Tyrion gives a short, sweeping bow. “My apologies, Your Grace. I shall take my leave now and advise the rest of the council you are safe and well. I shall see you at the meeting later.”

And with that, the imp turns on his heel and saunters away—and Jorah could swear that he’s _humming_. He glowers at his back until he’s turned the corner and disappeared from sight, starting only when Daenerys slips her hand into his and rests the other against his forearm.

“Let us return to your chambers, my bear,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade. “We’ve hours yet before we need to be anywhere.”

He lets her lead him back inside with a gentle tug. He closes the door behind them as she wanders over to his desk, dropping the bound scroll there carelessly without giving it a second glance. Upon Jorah’s questioning look she shrugs.

“Varys has already read it, and Tyrion told you of its contents,” she says. “Jon coming to visit is nothing that cannot wait for a few more hours. It’s going to take him weeks to reach here.”

He watches as she slips off his shirt, his breath catching in his throat. Gods, she is beautiful. Near flawless. Soft, supple skin. Full, round breasts. It’s been a few weeks now and he still can’t fully fathom that she is here with him. She is beauty, grace, wisdom. A thousand men would have queued for her affections.

She holds them for him. Confessed them deep in the night with the candles guttering and succumbing to the darkness, as if the cloak falling over them would keep them safe. She’d kissed him there, in the council room after hours, long after everyone else had departed for their beds. All except him, who would never leave her side unless she asked it of him.

She had told him that she had been blind for years. That she had never thought that what was in her heart could possibly be the fiercest love she had ever known. That it had taken until the Long Night—until they had fought side by side on the battlefield, bloody and exhausted and filthy—to see the truth of the world. That she had had to watch him fall after taking blow after blow for her, had to hold him in her arms and watch the life leech out of him for her to truly comprehend that the love of her life had been standing by her side through it all.

There had been a shift in their relationship after that chaotic, traumatic night, but it had never crossed Jorah’s mind that it could be more than it had been in the past. There had been too much to do to dwell on it—a war to win, a complicated relationship with the newly discovered Targaryen to untangle. And since freeing the people from Cersei Lannister there had been even less time—people to see, laws to undo, the world to change one small step at a time. Sansa Stark was Queen in the North and Yara Greyjoy was Queen of the Iron Islands, both stronger allies for their independence. All other parts of the Seven Kingdoms had been given the same choice, but so far all were happy to remain. New lords and houses formed in the ruins of the ones that had come before. Daenerys used her position to work tirelessly for the people she had liberated. Once there had only been fear for her here. Now there is nothing but love.

Jorah will always be her strongest champion of all. His feelings for her, both as his queen and as a woman, will never change.

“You seem troubled,” Daenerys notes, analysing him with those violet eyes. Jorah turns away from her to avoid them, on the pretence of needing a goblet of water. He drinks slowly, wandering over to the window, swills the words around his head.

“I am not troubled,” he says.

“A lie, ser. There is no need to shield me.”

He says nothing. She sighs.

“If you won’t tell me, at least come back to bed.”

 _Come back to bed._ That does raise a smile. It sounds so…domesticated. So _unbelievable_.

“Tyrion’s right about something, you know,” she comments.

As soon as the smile appeared, it slips off his face. Jorah scowls at his reflection. He’s vouched for Tyrion in the past, convinced Daenerys to keep faith in her Hand, but he does not like to hear those words in conjunction with himself. Because while there is no denying that Tyrion Lannister is a brilliant man, he is no less irritating than he was on the journey from Volantis.

“What was he right about?” he asks, more sulkily than he intended. If Daenerys notices, she chooses not to rebuke him.

“You _have_ been smiling more lately,” she says. “I like it.”

He appraises his reflection, catches the treacherous upturning of his lips once more. It appears to be the truth. Then again, what man could possibly be able to refrain from smiling if he was in this position? Just looking at Daenerys makes him want to smile, strikes joy within his very soul. She has been his everything for a long time, but to know that they are in this together, that she returns the sentiment…

He shakes his head. He still can’t believe it’s real.

“Jorah,” she says again, the sheets rustling around her, leaving her gloriously exposed to his gaze; he cannot stop himself from turning towards the sound of her voice, nor his eyes from travelling over the sun-kissed planes of her body. King’s Landing isn’t as hot as Essos, but it’s certainly much warmer than the north, and he has been blessed with the sight of his queen’s skin tanning under those warm rays. She looks healthier than she has ever looked before, her body filling out with the fine Westerosi food, and no true worries for the first time in her young life. He is grateful for that more than anything else. “I want you here, with me.”

And who is he to deny her wishes? He crosses the room towards the bed, but stops when she raises a hand, crooking an eyebrow at him.

“Off,” she says, nodding at his breeches, and his smirk broadens as he moves to do her bidding. At one time he might have been self-conscious about his body—compared with the other men she’s taken into her bed, he’s clearly the least attractive—but Daenerys has always vocally expressed her pleasure in the way he looks; he sees nothing but love and desire in her expression and he knows he has no reason to be shy. He loosens the ties on his breeches and slips out of them, slowly, his heart racing at the way she watches his every move with an intensity that could burn, climbing onto the bed beside her. She’s on him at once, mouth slanted over his, fingers raking through his hair. He enjoys the silky press of her body, the satin of her tongue in his mouth, the soft sound she makes in the back of her throat when his hand trails down her arse. They kiss for several long minutes, and Jorah feels the temperature in the room rising around them, in direct correlation to Daenerys’ deepening breaths, the soft pink flush in her cheeks, the tightness of her breasts. It only serves to stoke his own desires.

 _I don’t think you could ride the dragon_ , Daario had once told him. _She’s wild, you know. Don’t let her size fool you. It’s hard enough for me, and I’m a young man._

Jorah isn’t a young man anymore, true, but he has vast experience, knows how to draw pleasure out and make it last. Judging from the way that Daenerys croons and writhes beneath him, _begs_ him not to stop, he’s doing something right. Is far more than capable of riding the dragon.

But when he rolls them over, moves his hand between them, cupping one of those breasts in his palm, she stills him. There’s conflict in her gaze—pride flashes through him at that—but resolve too. There’s something that she wants to say, and Jorah knows he’ll get no further until she’s voiced it. Reluctantly he draws away from her, keeping himself elevated on his elbows. Her eyes flicker over his face, tender and honest.

“I’m not afraid of what people will say,” she says. “I’m breaking the wheel. This is just another spoke on that wheel. Westeros has only ever functioned with the politics. Love has always been seen as a weakness. But love is _not_ a weakness. I have been underestimated many times because of my sex, because of my family name. I have overcome all those odds and proven them all wrong. I will prove them wrong in this as well.”

Jorah sighs, the pit of his stomach souring. He’d been hoping to delay the topic for a while. He should have known his queen would not be so easily deterred. “It might not be as easy as you think.”

“When has the path we’ve taken ever been easy?”

He concedes to that with the dip of his head, his mouth against the soft skin of her throat. She tilts her head to give him better access, a purr rumbling from within her. At length, he pulls away.

“You’ll have more than your people to contend with,” he points out.

“You mean Varys.”

“He doesn’t like anything that will threaten the balance of the realm.”

“There’s plenty he doesn’t like. He is welcome to voice his concerns as he always has. And I am welcome to dismiss them as I see fit.”

“Your council is there for a reason,” he says softly. “They are there to provide you advice.”

“All right,” says Daenerys, slipping out of his grasp. Startled, he moves to follow her, but she presses her hand against his chest and pushes him back into the mattress. He swallows hard as she swings herself over him, knees at his hips, fingers teasing his nipples. She is ethereal in the grey dawn light, smoky violet eyes burning into him. “You sit on my small council. You are one of my advisors. Advise me.”

“That’s hardly fair,” he complains, screwing up his eyes as her bottom comes into contact with his thighs.

“You swore to obey my every command,” she tells him, gallingly unaffected. “I command you to advise me.”

“A disgraced exile does not make the best match,” Jorah says, trying to ignore the way she looks atop him. The words make his chest ache, but he has sworn to put her best interests first, no matter the cost to himself, no matter the desires of his heart. “Many of the people of Westeros still remember me from before and do not take kindly to me having such a position in your household, never mind anything else.”

“A position in my heart,” she murmurs, reaching up to run her mouth from his ear to his jawline. They are words he will never dare say for himself. Even now, weeks on, when she has _told_ him the truth of it, it seems presumptuous to assume he could be loved by her the way he has always dreamed.

 _I love you._ Those three words whispered into his sweaty hair in the aftermath of their very first time together, him cradled in the sanctity of her thighs, his head tucked into the crook of her neck, her fingers running tenderly through his hair and down his back, soothing the trembling in his limbs. It’s more than he ever dared to hope for, and still more than he dare believe after everything.

“I wish Varys’ little birds could see us now,” Daenerys says. “He’d realise that he has nothing to fear on the score of you trying to influence me on a personal level.”

“First and foremost I am your Lord Commander,” Jorah tells her, unable to stop himself from pushing stray strands of hair behind her ear. “If you commanded me to leave your side tomorrow, I would do so in a heartbeat.” No matter the cost.

Daenerys scrunches up her nose. “What did I tell you, ser? I need you by my side. Always.”

His heart swells in his chest, and he can’t prevent himself from leaning up to kiss her, relishing the soft warmth of her tongue as it meets his. Her fingers trace idly over the scars on his chest. She does that a lot, he’s noticed, runs her fingertips over the marks on his body, taken for her without hesitation, ones he would take all over again. He doesn’t even think she realises that she’s doing it. An unconscious blessing. They tingle under her touch.

“I will address it at the council meeting today,” she says when she draws back, sliding from him onto the mattress. She settles herself on her side and he mirrors her, mesmerised as she comes close enough to twine herself around him. Jorah grits his teeth at the sensation of her soft skin sliding over his. She doesn’t play fair. “I will beg to hear any misgivings and I will address them all. Truly, I don’t foresee any apart from Varys’.”

No, Jorah supposes there won’t be any opposition from most of the others. He has a close bond with Samwell Tarly, thanks to the memory of his father and the way that Sam went beyond duty to cure him of greyscale. Davos Seaworth came from humble beginnings and rose high; as a former smuggler, he will see no wrong in an exiled knight finding redemption. “What about Tyrion?”

“Tyrion won’t have any objections. He was filled with glee, or were you not paying attention?”

“He objected to me before.” _A ruler who kills those devoted to her is not a ruler who inspires devotion. And you’re going to need to inspire devotion, a lot of it, if you’re ever going to rule across the Narrow Sea. But you cannot have him by your side when you do._

Daenerys, as usual, picks up on his inference at once. She leans in to kiss him again, long and slow, as if they have all the time in the world for this. Despite himself, he melts. He is helpless to resist her, no matter what that means.

“If I had listened to Tyrion’s counsel before then I would not be here,” she says. “I would have died on the Long Night. _You_ were the one who came to me. You, no one else. You took those blows for me and put your life on the line, as you always swore to me that you would should the time ever come. We would have none of this without you. You are the reason Westeros knows peace at last.”

“You give me too much credit, Khaleesi,” he says, but his heart floods with warmth nevertheless. Her approval and faith in him, in whatever capacity that is, is all he’s ever wanted.

“I have never given you enough, my bear,” she says gently, scuffing her thumb over his cheekbone. Her eyes trace over his features with a softness that’s unlike anything he’s ever witnessed before, before she resumes her business-like tone. “In any case, Tyrion is fond of you.”

“Fond of testing my patience,” Jorah mutters.

Daenerys smirks at him. “Well, that too. But he does respect you. And he knows that you are true and loyal and I am in safe hands when you are around. Why else did he come straight to you when he discovered I wasn’t in my chambers? Because he knows you will do whatever it takes to see me safe.”

“He’s also got a shrewd head for politics. That’s why he’s your Hand. And I doubt if he looks at it with insightful unbias that he’ll think it’s a good match. They will argue that love is the death of duty.” It’s an inescapable truth. It has been for many men, it was for himself. He ruined his house and himself for Lynesse.

“Love will _not_ be the death of duty under my reign,” she says fiercely. “I will make everyone see that love is a strength, the greatest one there is. Have I not already proved it so? Is my reign not one built on love? Love of my followers, love of my friends, love of the people of Westeros?”

“That’s different.”

“But it’s not. No one thought it was a good idea for me to travel around Westeros with the Dothraki. That was the best decision I ever made.”

Jorah remembers that time with fondness. It was like the years had been stripped away. Daenerys had been happy and free in a way that she hadn’t been for years, since this game of thrones had begun. Tyrion and the others had been left behind to rule King’s Landing in her absence, with the exception of Missandei and Grey Worm, who had asked for leave to travel to Naath. Jorah knows that Daenerys has reminded everyone frequently that there’s nothing that binds anyone to her, but she does not see the marvel in front of their eyes; _she_ is worthy of being followed to the seven hells and back, and they will all do that of their own free will, because she’s given them all a choice and they have chosen her even when they could go anywhere in the world.

The others had objected, believing that the queen belonged in the capital, but dragons were stubborn. She had set off with her remaining Dothraki, her bloodriders, and Jorah. He hadn’t expected to be chosen, but she had told him firmly that the Lord Commander went wherever she did. And so they had ridden for hours every day, until they were saddle-sore and dusty, and had slept beneath the stars each night.

The people of her kingdoms had loved her. They’d been wary of the Dothraki, fierce and wild as they looked, but Daenerys had entertained everyone, from the smallest child who had clung fearlessly to her riding skins, to the oldest village elders who had seen more death and destruction in their lifetimes than could possibly be comprehended. She spoke to everyone she passed, listened to their concerns with patience, bore any hostility with grace, and by the time she returned to the capital she was well loved everywhere. Seeing her like that with her subjects had only made Jorah’s love for her, as his queen and as a woman, grow. There would be songs written about the dragon queen for centuries to come.

“That’s true,” Jorah concedes reluctantly now.

“And even if they object, I’ll just wait until Jon gets here and he’ll speak up in favour of you. The rest of my household revere him as a god.” No matter how much time has passed, he knows that she still holds a grain of resentment for her nephew and the ease he has with leading, being followed almost without question. On his own part, Jorah feels a bristling of indignity at the idea of needing Jon to vouch for him. He doesn’t need anyone to fight his battles. He is a warrior in his own right, more seasoned than most.

Daenerys’ lips curve —some of his dissatisfaction must be showing on his face.

“Don’t fret, I’m sure we’ll do admirably between us,” she says. Her hand slips lower over his back, flirtatious and challenging. “There’s no point in thinking on it now. We’ve hours yet before the council meeting. I can think of plenty of ways to fill our time.”

Jorah’s lips curl in response—she simply has that effect on him. There’s nothing coy about where her hand is going—she is a queen, and she does not fear making herself plain. He pulls back a little, relishing the disappointed sound she makes as he escapes her touch. “Have you indeed?”

Daenerys follows him, gilded golden by the light as she sits up on her knees. Her palm finds his chest and she pushes him down among the warm sheets she’s just vacated. Jorah’s heartbeat quickens and he swallows thickly, allowing his gaze to drift over her in all her beauty. Truly, there has never been a more glorious sight than Daenerys Stormborn, fierce and wild and otherworldly. She leans down to kiss him once more, palm cupping his jaw, fingers caressing that spot just behind his earlobe that he didn’t even realise was so sensitive until she touched him there the first time, making him shiver and arch, a plaything for her every whim. Thankfully, Daenerys is not a cruel mistress—most of the time—and she does not torture him for long, sitting herself upon his stomach. He feels the scope of her need against him, grunts in appreciation, moving to grasp her hips despite himself. She undulates against him in a way that should be a crime, bending down so her hot breath blows against his ear and makes him tingle all over.

“I think we should start with my bear tasting my honey,” she purrs, and he floods with hot desire. “What do you say, ser?”

As if he has a choice. As if he is not a staunch servant to her every desire and whim, an enthusiastic explorer of every inch of her body, taking the care that a swordsman does with his training, the pride of a blacksmith with his craft, the devoutness of a septon with his faith. He is more dedicated than a maester with his learning, devoted to learning every tiny response, what makes her giggle, what makes her breath catch, what makes her moan aloud, what makes her grip his back in a fit of unrepentant passion.

He does not answer her with words. He lets his body do the communicating instead. Grips her hips harder, encouraging her up his body, his own breaths coming harder in mingling anticipation and arousal as she moves further up his stomach, his chest...

He makes her wait for a few seconds, running his nose along the crease of her thigh, breathing in the scent of her skin, smirking at the impatient, exhilarated rush of air that leaves her.

It’s never a good idea to tease the dragon for long.

His mouth goes where she needs him most, and Daenerys’ sound of gratification is loud and uninhibited, her fingers curling around the mahogany headboard, grounding her there with him. He cups her hips, holds her there, loses himself in everything she is.

Right now, in this golden, sacred moment, there is nothing to worry about. No past, no future. Just the here and now.

And for now, Jorah thinks later, as Daenerys Targaryen snuggles against his side, cheek pressed tight to his chest in a very, _very_ contented afterglow, it is more than enough. Whatever storms may be rumbling on the horizon, they will weather them together.

“Whatever may come,” Daenerys murmurs sleepily against him, fingertip drawing patterns over where his heart lies and beats solely for her, almost as if she can read his mind—which, at times, he suspects she can, for they are so in tune with each other, conversing with raised eyebrows and pointed looks.

“Whatever may come,” he echoes, an oath he will swear to the end of his days, and presses his lips against her temple. No matter what people might say or think, he will never abandon her. Not then when he had her faith and trust, not now he has her love.

They drift together in the pale grey light, the bear and his maiden fair, his dragon queen, his everything.


End file.
